


Ascension and Madness

by MyckiCade



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suspense, family ties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 09:48:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2688278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyckiCade/pseuds/MyckiCade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Gordon had a fantastic way of bringing people together. The circumstances may not have been ideal, and it wasn't always intentional, but, it tended to be for the greater good. He was the link that kept them close, the tie that bound. All Jim could see was the way he tore everyone apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ascension and Madness

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Introductory chapter. A bit short. (Sorry!!). This was headed one way... And, it just went to hell, in a proverbial hand basket, from there! ^^. In short, buckle up, and prepare yourselves. I'm going off the beaten path, on this one!!
> 
> P.S. I'll fix that summary, come morning.

He hadn't meant to get everyone mixed up in this, really, he hadn't. Somehow, he'd managed to be stupid, selfish,  _and_ blind, in one, all-encompassing shot. It didn't exactly make him feel dandy, knowing that he'd placed the people cared for on the line, but, damn it, what else was he supposed to have done? When Barbara left, Jim thought it was done, that the last person he had to worry about was long gone, and far away from the nightmares he was stirring up in Gotham. Maybe, just maybe, he could breathe in a bit of peace.

Oh, but, how wrong he'd been.

Asking a few too many questions in the wrong direction had left Jim out of options, on several fronts, once again stood bleeding at the doorstep of Wayne Manor with nowhere else to go. Hoping he wasn't disturbing the entire household, he pressed for the doorbell, and waited. It was late enough for Bruce to be tucked away in bed, though Jim couldn't pinpoint an exact hour, if asked. The lead had been hot, that morning, and he'd thrown on the first clean suit he could find to rush to work. In the process, he'd left behind his watch, his wallet, and the key to his apartment. His cell phone was... God only  _knew_ where, lost somewhere between his disagreement with several, less-than-cooperative men, and where he presently stood. So long as he didn't wake Bruce, he figured, things would be fine.

Unfortunately, judging from the disapproving look on Alfred's face, upon opening the door, he may have failed.

“Detective Gordon,” Alfred greeted, the even keel of his tone forced. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this... late and unexpected visit?”

Jim flinched. If the Wrath of God could take human form, he was fairly certain that Alfred Pennyworth would be a fine candidate for embodiment. “I'm sorry, Alfred. I... I didn't expect to be here, at this hour, just...”

“Most people don't,” came the sarcastic reply. Jim felt a bit of heat rise to his cheeks, before Alfred let out a sigh. “Right, then. Where are you bleeding from,  _this_ time?”

“Ah...” Reaching a shaking hand toward the open collar of his shirt, Jim eased the fabric back, revealing the gash running through the juncture of his neck and shoulder. From what he'd managed to see in the rear view mirror, on the drive over, it began just above his collarbone, and ended a little too close to his spine, for personal comfort. “Right there, for starters...”

“Jesus,” Alfred remarked, voice a harsh whisper. The look on the butler's face suggested he hadn't seriously expected there to be any injuries. Stepping forward, Alfred slipped his fingers under the collar of Jim's shirt, gently tugging it back for a better look. “Do you know how close this came to your skull, boy?”

To that, Jim rolled his eyes. “I had noticed, yeah.” The next look he received, as Alfred leaned back, was a clear warning over his tone. Sighing, Jim tried, again. “Look, there are people looking for me, and I was hoping you could, I don't know...” Really, what  _had_ he been hoping for Alfred to do? Stitch him up, and hide him in the attic? No, of course not, but... The first part, he could live with.

In front of him, Alfred took a step back, and gave Jim the visual once-over. “Bloody thrill-seekers,” he grumbled, leaving Jim with the distinct feeling that he'd just been scolded. “All right, get inside, Detective. Won't do for you to be passing out on the doorstep, now, will it?” Turning, Alfred lead the way inside, closing and locking the doors, behind them. A few steps down the hall, and Alfred was soon ushering Jim into a small sitting room. He stopped, just long enough to turn on a lamp. “Have a seat, there,” the older man directed, gesturing toward a small leather couch situated against the wall, near the door. “I'll be right back, so, don't move anywhere.”

Jim's lips flinched into a smile, not wanting to risk a full nod. His neck already felt as though someone had carved out the pound of flesh that was long overdue, the pain sending little messages to his brain, screams of, 'You dumbass' at the forefront. Thankfully, Alfred didn't wait for a proper response, instead ducking back out of the room, in silence. And, by 'silence', Jim meant  _silence._ He didn't even register the sound of the man's shoes pressing against the floor. Damn, but Alfred could be unnerving.

Resisting the urge to lean back in his seat, Jim fought to remain in an upright seated position. He'd be damned if he was willing to bleed all over Bruce's leather couch, ugly a thing, though it was. Really, Jim had never been one much for leather, be it on a couch, or in a car. It looked terribly showy, a way to flaunt money. While that may have worked, just fine, for the Waynes – rest their souls – it was no standard of living that Jim was in a rush to try and live up to, let alone compete with.

“All right, Detective,” Alfred called, causing Jim nearly to jump out of what remained of his skin. Glancing up, he barely caught the look of subtle amusement on Alfred's face. “Now, now, let's not go all to pieces. It's just a little antiseptic.” True enough, there was a small bottle in one of Alfred's blue-gloved hands, and what looked to be a small medical kit in the other.

Immediately, Jim frowned. That was sure to burn like a bitch, but there wasn't much he could do about it. He carefully tugged off his jacket, draping it over the arm of the couch, once he was sure that he wasn't going to leave any red on the material, beneath. It was all that Jim could do to steady his hands, as he attempted to undo the top button of his shirt. Idly, he remembered the first time his hands had trembled, so badly. Christ, it had been so long ago.

It began overseas, that much he was sure of. He'd thought himself fully prepared for the inevitabilities of war, that he would be shot at by people trying to kill him, and every other man dressed in the same uniform. That young men would  _die,_ and that he could very easily have been one of them. But, once his first encounter was over... There had been no steadying of his hands for days, after. As time went on, and he survived each new day, Jim had stopped wondering about why the reaction had stuck with him for so long. It just had, and it continued to come and go, as it pleased. There was no shame in it, and, despite a small dose of embarrassment to accompany, Jim eventually accepted it as just another inevitability.

Maybe, he should have mentioned it to the shrink, upon his release from active duty, after all.

Gotham, it seemed, qualified well-enough to rattle his nerves into oblivion. Between the worry over the eventual rise of the next psychopath to add to Arkham's new collection, trying to solve the Wayne murders, and keeping Cobblepot out of fucking trouble, it was a wonder that they hadn't had to lock  _him_ away, and toss the damned key. Already, Jim was certain that he would go grey, by age forty, if the City had anything to say about it. Nerves shot, grey hair, and well on his way to a massive scar for every six inches of skin. Mm, it was a  _wonder_ that Barbara hadn't just stuck right around for  _that._

Whether thankfully, once Alfred had touched wet cotton ball to torn skin, Jim realized that, yeah, it may have stung, but, he'd felt worse. A nice reprieve for his pain receptors, but souring for the rest of him.

“That's going to need a stitch,” Alfred commented, tossing the last cotton ball into the small waste basket at their feet. From his perch on the coffee table, Alfred leaned forward, a bit further, and sighed. “Perhaps, several.”

“Ah, would you mind?” Jim asked, unsurprised, in the slightest, when Alfred leaned back to look at him. Really, did  _every_ request put the man out, or, was it just Jim? “I mean, I'd do it myself, but, what with the angle...”

Alfred's expression grew skeptical. “ _You_ can put a stitch in yourself?”

“And, administer an I.V., when the situation calls for it,” Jim sighed. “Look, if it's too much to ask-”

“Oh, yes. Because, compared to the last few months, this is  _really_ the worst request you've put through to me, Detective.” Alfred shook his head, reaching to his left to take up needle and thread. Jim nearly rolled his eyes. “The girl, now,  _she's_ been just a walk in the bloody park.” Every word  _reeked_ of sarcasm, and Jim began to wonder if he really ought to allow the man quite so close to his skin, as he was asking, with quite so sharp an object.

Still, it brought to mind a question that he should have asked, long ago. “Is Selina still here?” he asked, in a rush, already looking to pull his shirt back on, stitches, be damned. “Christ, she's not out on the streets, right now, is she?”

“Calm down,” Alfred ordered, holding up his free hand in front of Jim. “She stayed the night. No need to get yourself in a tizzy.” Jim's heart still felt ready to beat out of his chest, but the rest of him got the message, and relaxed. “Now, turn around, here, Detective.” As he spoke, Alfred moved to sit on the next couch cushion. “Let's get this taken care of.”

There was no fight left in Jim, even if he didn't care to listen to the older man. He shifted into the requested position, and huffed, “I'll thank you to call me 'Jim'.”

“Yeah? And, I'll thank you to keep your person out of the line of fire, from now on, mm?”

“It's not as if I do it on purpose, you know.”

“Right, well,  _you_ can find a way to tell the boy that – the girl, too, for that matter – when they wake up, one morning, and find your death notice all over the front page of the Gotham Gazette.”

A tightness settled into Jim's throat, then. Harsh as the words were, Alfred was right. In the military, he'd worried about what would become of his Mother, if she'd had to take a visit from the CAO. Now, there were two children who would seek answers, if and when his demise became a reality. While he harbored no illusions that he would actually  _see_ those forty years... He didn't need to risk putting Bruce and Selina through that.

“You're right,” Jim replied, tightly, as he felt the first passing of needle through skin. “I'm sorry. It wasn't my intention-”

“Detective,” Alfred interrupted. He was rather good at that, Jim had to admit. “ _Jim._ It's not a matter of whether or not you  _intend_ to get yourself hurt. It's that you place yourself in the situation, in the first place. You create the possibility, time and again-”

“Yeah, but, by that logic, I create the possibility, every time I take a call.” He tried not to feel terribly triumphant over being the one to interrupt  _Alfred,_ this time around. “Hell, every time I step out my front door. There's a bright red target painted on me, everywhere I go. There's nothing I can do about it, anymore. What's done is done.”

“Is this defeat I hear, then?” Alfred shook his head, a little, putting in another stitch. “Well, I can honestly say, I never expected to hear  _that_ from  _your_ mouth.”

“It's not defeat,” Jim all but snapped. Alfred pointedly knocked his elbow against Jim's side.

“Keep your head straight.”

“It's not defeat,” he repeated, the heat of the first utterance lost. “It's the acceptance of the inevitability that  _I will die._ Be it today, tomorrow, or ten years down the line, it's gonna' happen. I could take a bullet to the chest, tomorrow. Or, in a month's time, someone could find a hidden stash of that Viper toxin, and  _that_ will do me in.”

“Last one,” Alfred warned, before putting in the last stitch, tugging it closed, and tying it off.

“Thanks,” Jim sighed, not yet reaching for his shirt. As he had expected, Alfred readied a bandage. “It's not that I have a death wish, Alfred. Not even close. I just... When I took this job, I told myself I wouldn't let myself be intimidated into letting  _them_ win.” There was no need for further explanation on just who  _they_ were. It was universal. “If I stop, now... Roll over, and play dead, then... Then, they win. I can't let them win.”

A cool gel was dabbed over Jim's damaged skin, before the bandage was lay over top of the stitches. Neither man said another word, while Alfred applied the dressing, but, for what reason, it was hard for Jim to say. Either he'd somehow managed to bore the other man to silence, he assumed, or he'd royally pissed him off.

It didn't exactly bode well for him, either way.

Once the bandage was settled, Jim listened Alfred stripped off the gloves, and tossed them in the bin. The older man got up from his seat, and began to collect back the items from his medical kit. Jim watched him for a moment, torn between trying to pull a response from Alfred, or just keeping his damned mouth shut. In the meanwhile, he eased his shirt back on.

“Still think I'm a thrill-seeker, do you?” he asked, apparently going with Option One. He couldn't help it, if he tried, either. Something about it was bothering him, deeply, needing the reaction. Doing up the buttons on his shirt, he waited, relieved to find his hands much sturdier than before.

Alfred stilled, for a moment, before sighing. “Have you ever considered,” he began, each word careful, considered, “that, 'letting them win' isn't just about compromising your morals?” Turning, a bit, Alfred gave Jim a pointed look, one that left the younger man wanting to look away. “ _Someone_ is  _obviously_ going out of their way to try to get  _you_ out of  _theirs._ If they succeed... Whether or not you allowed it, they still win.” Alfred reached down to collect the waste basket, carrying it and the kit toward the door. He stopped at the threshold, barely glancing back to Jim, again. “And, it goes without saying, Jim, that dead men are useless at trying to right the world.” With that, Alfred made his exit, in silent strides down the hallway.

Still on the couch, Jim considered the butler's opinion, more weight settling on the words than he was all-together comfortable with. True, he wouldn't be worth much to the City, as a corpse. Then again, he didn't exactly feel like he was moving mountains, while alive and kicking. Every good turn lead to a stone wall, immovable, impassable. But, surrender... It may not have been what Alfred was implying, but the idea left an acrid taste in his mouth. He'd pushed himself to the limits, time and again, going for broke in the darkest of situations, and, yes, he came up empty-handed more often than he cared to admit. Still, that was no reason to run up a white flag.

_Dead men are useless at trying to right the world._

Damn it. He could already feel the words, fresh as they were, coming up to haunt him. Like it, or not, Alfred was still right. He could rattle off any excuse he wanted, and the older man would still be fucking right. Jim had promises to fulfill, oaths he had sworn, time and again. He'd vowed to catch a murderer. To protect innocent lives from further harm. How could he risk failing two young children, putting their lives in danger, just for the sake of his own pride?

Head dropping to his hands, Jim already knew the answer.

He couldn't.

 


End file.
